


the graveyard's boy

by fade131



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Neglect, Supernatural Elements, and stuff, jongin sees dead people, these tags are a trainwreck I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fade131/pseuds/fade131
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m Jongin,” he says, when the strange boy is nearer. His wool coat looks heavy and itchy, the collar flipped up in the back, the black fabric making his pale skin stand out even more starkly. His shoes are old and scuffed, his trouser hem is fraying, the circles around his eyes are dark but he looks bright, under everything.</p><p>“My name is Kyungsoo,” he whispers, and his voice sounds odd, as if he’s not used to using it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. when we are 12 and 13.

The bus stop that Jongin has to use to get to school now is four blocks away, but he doesn’t mind the walk much. He doesn’t really mind anything much anymore – he would gladly walk all the way to school, two towns over, if it meant he could stay living with his grandmother, and not return home. There are other kids his age who live along the first three blocks before the bus stop, other kids who go to his school, but he doesn’t know any of them. Their parents drive them – on their way to work, early but not too early, and he thinks maybe they get to sleep in a little later (the bus takes a very long time) or maybe their parents cook them breakfast (he eats leftover rice from the night before, as quickly as he can before rushing out into the chilly morning air). In his daydreams, he makes friends with the pretty, plump girl who lives three houses down and sits in the front of his math class, and her and her mother take pity on him, and offer him a ride to school.

But the walk isn’t really something that bothers him. There are, after all, three blocks of houses – all squat and cheerfully painted, most of them chipping and leaning but surrounded by neat little squares of green grass and islands of bright flowers – and he likes looking at them, wondering what kinds of people live inside them, watching the earliest lights come on as people he’s never met get up to start their days. In his imagination they all live simple, content lives – like his grandmother and her tiny blue house, this neighborhood is a safe place, untouched by sadness, just for him.

The fourth block is winding – and longer, perhaps, than a block, because it is not houses on either side, but the sprawl of a cemetery. On one side lies the old town graveyard, full of big monuments and stone angels, with dates reaching farther back than he imagined people lived out here; and on the other lies newer plots, headstones laid flat in the neatly trimmed grass, so it almost looks like a particularly well–groomed empty space. The bus stop sits at the end of cemetery fence, right next to the gate – a little bench and a sign, and nothing more. Trees are thick along the high fence, so the newer side of the cemetery is obscured from view for most of his walk, until he reaches the wrought iron gate that bars the road inside, but the older burial ground has only a few trees here and there, and he likes to walk along that side of the road, peering through the fence to read the names and dates.

Days turn to weeks and he’s no longer the new kid at school, he’s another familiar face now – but still, he’s found no one he could call a friend. The walk to the bus stop gets chillier, and he sits on the bench with his hands shoved into his pockets, trying not to shiver. His grandmother doesn’t like how late the buses bring him home, but she can’t afford the gas to come get him – so every afternoon he waits at the stop next to school, rubbing his arms to stay warm, and struggles to keep his writing neat as he does his homework in the lurching vehicle (his mother used to make him walk home from his old school, but it was only around the corner, and she never cared how late he was coming home). By the time it reaches his stop, the sun has sunk low on the horizon, and he trudges home as quickly as he can, knowing his grandmother is waiting for him (there were so many days when his mother simply wasn’t home), that there will be something simple but warm and filling for dinner (instead of takeout, or leftover takeout, or whatever he could find because she wasn’t hungry, no matter that he was), that she’ll ruffle his hair and hug him before she sends him off to bed (hugs still feel foreign, and he wonders if his mother has ever hugged him, ever smoothed his hair or held his hand, and he can’t remember).

It’s particularly cold the day Jongin hops down off the bus and sees someone on the other side of the cemetery gate, someone who tries to rush away up the road when he’s spotted, and without thinking he rushes to the fence, calling for him to wait.

The boy halts, turns, and Jongin thinks he’s never seen someone with eyes so wide, but maybe he’s just startled. His hair is short and messy, his skin is pale and his cheeks are gaunt, but when Jongin motions him closer again something close to a smile spills across his features – nervous and unsure, but a smile nonetheless.

“I’m Jongin,” he says, when the strange boy is nearer. His wool coat looks heavy and itchy, the collar flipped up in the back, the black fabric making his pale skin stand out even more starkly. His shoes are old and scuffed, his trouser hem is fraying, the circles around his eyes are dark but he looks bright, under everything.

“My name is Kyungsoo,” he whispers, and his voice sounds odd, as if he’s not used to using it.

Jongin grins. “Why haven’t I seen you before? What school do you go to?”

“I don’t, I don’t go to school,” Kyungsoo murmurs, looking down, and Jongin’s wide smile hitches in a little at the corners, brow drawing together in confusion.

“Doesn’t everyone have to go to school?” he asks, genuinely confused.

The strange boy shakes his head a little, not like an answer, but as if to disentangle himself from Jongin’s questions. “I don’t. I’m not allowed.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Jongin shifts a little, standing up straighter – he doesn’t want to lean against the metal gate, the icy cold seeps through his thin hoodie much too quickly.

“I go to the school in town,” he says finally, and there’s a ghost of a smile around the corners of Kyungsoo’s lips.

“I know you do,” he says softly, “I see you almost every day, getting off that bus.”

“You see me every day?”

Kyungsoo seems to notice he’s made a misstep, bites his bottom lip and steps back just a little from the gate, looking worried. “I mean, it’s not like I’m, like I’m watching you or anything, I just—”

But Jongin isn’t listening. “If you see me every day, we have to be friends,” he insists, firm and excruciatingly hopeful. Kyungsoo blinks at him with those wide, startled eyes, and Jongin realizes for the first time that the strange boy must be older than him, at least by a year, and feels a little abashed by his own forwardness.

His smile is just as oddly nervous as before, but Jongin thinks it fits his face properly. “Yeah, then we must be friends,” Kyungsoo says, and the smile that splits Jongin’s own lips is bright and wide.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, right?” He’s so excited, so enthusiastic.

Kyungsoo’s smile loses a little of its nervous tinge. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jongin.”

There are a lot of tomorrows. Kyungsoo meets him by the gate every day after school, and sometimes on weekends too. He’s quiet and calm and kind, and he doesn’t ever tell Jongin to stop talking, or look at him like he’s said something stupid. He seems more than happy to listen to Jongin recount his days – the classes he’s good in, the tests he doesn’t think he passed, the dance class during his free block that he loves more than anything. Kyungsoo lets him hold his hand through the bars when he talks about the older boys that push him around, the kids in his class who laugh at him, the people who say he doesn’t have any friends.

“But they’re wrong,” Jongin says firmly, tired eyes still welling up with tears, “they’re wrong, I have you.”

Kyungsoo never pushes, never asks anything he thinks Jongin might not want to share – but still he learns that Jongin’s mother won’t talk to him on the phone when she calls, that her and her new boyfriend are getting married and he doesn’t like children, that Jongin wants to stay here more than anything but his grandmother is getting old and he’s afraid.

Jongin’s never talked to anyone about his father, but he tells Kyungsoo, about his grandmother’s only son who got up one morning and stepped in front a train. Kyungsoo reaches through the bars of the fence and brushes his tears away with gentle fingers, and says he’s sorry, and that it’s alright, until Jongin thinks maybe it will be.

Their meetings are short, out of necessity, but when summer comes Jongin finds himself with an abundance of free time.

“Come out and play,” he pleads, tan fingers wrapped tight around the cool metal bars of the gate, like he could force it open.

Kyungsoo grimaces, wide eyes straying across the road before falling to the ground beneath their feet. “I can’t,” he whispers, like he’s begging Jongin to understand.

Jongin wrinkles his nose, watching the older boy – he’s already taller than Kyungsoo, an unexpected growth spurt that left his jeans too short at his ankles, that made his old hoodie fit properly instead of hanging off him loosely. “Then let me come in.”

Kyungsoo looks up at him, eyes even bigger with surprise, and he licks his lips, hesitating. “Maybe,” he says finally, “maybe tomorrow. I have to ask if, if it’s okay.”

“Okay,” Jongin replies cheerfully, smiling again already, and they spend the day chatting by the gate, but he rushes home with the prospect of maybe – finally – not having that barrier between them.

He should have, he thinks, considered it before. That Kyungsoo came out from behind the high fence not even once. But it had simply never occurred to him – although it was definitely strange, that they had never spoken without the fence between them. Had he really never asked to come inside before? Had he really never tried to get Kyungsoo to come out? That will change now, though; he’s not sure about Kyungsoo’s parents – his friend has never mentioned them, but who else could he need permission from? – but he feels certain that they’ll say yes.

 

“Where have you been all day?” his grandmother asks, warm and curious, when he reaches home. He tells her, and it’s almost a week before he gets out of her sight again.

He’s at the gate again, but Kyungsoo isn’t there. Of course he isn’t there, not when Jongin didn’t come, not when Jongin couldn’t even let him know what had happened. He shakes the bars and they barely rattle – the fence is heavy, heavier than he thought it would be. He’s been standing there for a long time, calling for Kyungsoo as loudly as he dares, but he can’t see anything – only the slightly hilly expanse of neatly trimmed grass, flat black squares dotting the ground, little roads and paths leading around it all.

But where does Kyungsoo come from, he wonders suddenly, forehead resting against the cold metal, hot sun beating down on his dark hair. He had never considered that before, either – had never bothered to wonder about his friend, about what he was doing here in the cemetery day in and day out, about where he lived or who his parents were or why he didn’t go to school. Kyungsoo’s answers were soft and firm, when Jongin had asked him questions, the first few times they’d met, but now that he thinks about them Jongin’s not sure he learned anything much at all. Is there a home inside the cemetery, a little grave keeper’s house – old and painted white, Jongin thinks, with another fence around it, low but still wrought iron, with black shutters and a heavy door – and if there is, where? The trees along the road hide much, he knows, from his view. If only he could get inside, he could find Kyungsoo and make him explain.

But it was a cemetery, there had to be a way in, didn’t there? People came to visit their loved ones, to leave flowers, to pray. Or did they? He had never seen either gate opened – although he had never thought it strange that no one visited the older burial ground – and he had never seen anyone visiting the graves. He had never thought about it, never until now. Why?

He rattles the gate again, as hard as he possibly can, and the bolt that holds it closed clanks heavily inside the lock. Kyungsoo isn’t coming, the traitorous voice in his head supplies harshly, you’ve let him down and he won’t want to be friends with you anymore. Of course it had only been a matter of time. No one wanted to stay friends with someone like him. No one wanted someone like him at all. He is useless, after all. Jongin slips to the ground, sitting on the hot tar, his back leaning against the icy cold metal of the gate, tears running hot and unchecked down his cheeks.

Someone touches his shoulder.

“Jongin? Jongin, are you alright? Are you crying?”

He turns, startled, and Kyungsoo’s crouched on the other side of the fence, wide eyes full of worry. “I’m sorry, I only just heard you calling a minute ago. Have you been here long?”

He doesn’t know how to respond. He should be the one apologizing – he should have tried harder to sneak away from his grandmother, he should have been a better friend – but Kyungsoo reaches through the bars to smooth a tear from his cheek and all the apologies freeze in his throat. And then the older boy stands up, pulling a chain out of the front of his sweater – he wears the heaviest clothes, even now at the height of summer, and Jongin thinks maybe he’ll ask why, sometime soon – and on the end of the chain is a key, an old heavy thing, and the gate gives way against his back as soon as Kyungsoo turns it in the lock.

Kyungsoo helps him to his feet and before Jongin can think much there are warm arms around him, and Kyungsoo has to stand on the balls of his feet to hook his chin over Jongin’s shoulder, and he smells like fresh cut grass and newly turned earth and a strange sickly–sweetness that Jongin doesn’t recognize. It’s the first time Jongin has been hugged and it felt right, the first time he’s hugged someone back and not felt awkward, the first time it felt like comfort.

And then Kyungsoo lets go, gently, and threads their fingers together. “Come on, okay?” he says softly, so Jongin nods, and follows him. Kyungsoo pulls the gate closed behind them, and the lock slides loudly into place, before they head up the road. It mirrors the street outside the cemetery gates, stretching along the line of trees, smaller paths leading off it into the rows of headstones. They don’t go where Jongin expects to go – he’s not sure what he’s expecting, not really – but there’s a big tree off alone, tall and old in the middle of the quiet grass, with a blanket and a book at its base, and Kyungsoo leads him there, their hands still linked together tightly. It’s cold inside the graveyard, even with the summer sun beating down Jongin feels chilled, shivering, and when they sit down on the blanket he rubs his arms – but Kyungsoo sits close, an arm wrapped around his shoulders, and he doesn’t feel so cold.

When he gets home his grandmother is waiting, fear etched in the corners of her eyes and the downturn of her lips, and he cries as he tells her that Kyungsoo is his only friend in the whole world, that he can’t, he just can’t give that up.

She doesn’t try to stop him again, but every day when he leaves she hugs him tighter than he thought her frail arms were capable of, and makes him promise to come home. He remembers to bring his sweatshirt when he goes – a new one, too big like the last, the sleeves swallowing his hands and the hem brushing his thighs, warm and comfortable. Kyungsoo still sits close, when they aren’t running around, when they aren’t coming up with games to play, still sits close enough for Jongin to feel the warm press of his shoulder against his own, and sometimes when he goes home Kyungsoo will hug him too, and his sweatshirt will smell like grass and fresh dirt and sticking sweetness.

Summer eases into fall and the cemetery is cold, so cold, but whenever he goes Kyungsoo opens the gate and lets him in, and that’s better than being warm every day.

“I’m moving,” Jongin says faintly, sprawled on his stomach on the blanket. The orange fabric is scratchy under his chin but it’s warm from his body, the grass he’s running his palm over absently, back and forth, is warm from the sun, and the strange chill isn’t bothering him so much. Kyungsoo moves, rolls onto his side next to him, resting his head in his palm, and frowns.

“Moving? Where?”

“My mom is moving into town – the apartment’s just, just down the street from my school. So I’m gonna live with her now.”

“But I thought…”

Jongin shrugs, and it says everything and nothing. He doesn’t have any answers.

Kyungsoo bites his lips, hesitating, and Jongin watches him out of the corner of his eye, not daring to turn and face him.

“When will you, when do you go?”

Jongin shivers, and suddenly nothing’s warm anymore. The grass beneath his hand is icy; the blanket is stiff and chilled. He sits up, drawing his knees up to his chest, and Kyungsoo sits as well, watching him with those wide sad eyes.

“Tonight,” he whispers, and Kyungsoo looks, for a moment, like he might cry. But the expression is fleeting, replaced by his usual comforting calm – except it isn’t comforting, not now, and tears are spilling down Jongin’s cheeks. He rubs them away, shivering with the cold. “She called this morning.” His voice is shaking, but he keeps going. “She called and said that I couldn’t be a burden on my grandmother anymore, that she’d be right near school so it wouldn’t be a problem, she said I had to…”

Kyungsoo shakes his head, and he’s hugging Jongin again, tight and warm and comforting, and he rubs Jongin’s back awkwardly when he starts to sob. “You don’t have to explain. I know you would have told me sooner if you’d known.”

“I’ll come and visit you,” Jongin whispers (and it isn’t true, because his mother wouldn’t ever give him the money to take the bus to see his grandmother, and there’s no reason to think she’s changed now).

“I hope so,” Kyungsoo replies, and Jongin can hear the resignation in his voice, and it hurts more than anything.


	2. when I might be falling.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello again, Jongin,” he says softly, and his voice shimmers with bursts of light behind Jongin’s eyes, and the weight lifts, and he remembers.
> 
> Kyungsoo doesn’t seem at all surprised that Jongin had forgotten him, although he takes his apologies calmly, that same anxious smile on his lips. He doesn’t let go of Jongin’s hand, sits next to him calmly through the whole ride, gently pressing him until Jongin tells him everything about the past three years.

The nursing home smells sweet and sad and strange, but Jongin doesn’t really mind it very much. His grandmother’s room is robin’s egg blue, like her house, and there are marigolds in a little pink vase on the dresser. The curtains are pale yellow, with little white flowers stitched along the bottom, and they flutter in the soft spring breeze coming through the open window. The room is unadorned, except that she has a picture of him – awkward in his dance costume, grinning foolishly at her camera after the show, his makeup smudged and face flushed with exertion, a little bouquet of poppies in his hands –sitting on the little nightstand beside her bed, surrounded by boxes of tissues and pill planners and buttons to call the nurse.

“Can we go already? I hate this place,” his mother whispers vehemently, but he ignores her.

His grandmother’s hand is delicate and soft in his, a little cold, and he rubs his thumb gently over her knuckles again. She’s sleeping now, but he doesn’t want leave just yet. Somewhere deep down, he knows she’s not going to wake up this time (it should frighten him, it should make him much more sad than it does, but somehow it doesn’t hurt as much as he expected, there’s a gentle reassuring feeling spreading through his chest and he’s not sure where it’s coming from).

His mother huffs in irritation and grabs his hand, pulling him out of his chair. “We’re leaving,” she says sharply, frowning harder when he blinks up at her with pleading eyes. “I’m not giving you money to take the bus home. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t say that he has enough change for the bus, because she’d ask him where he got it. So he only pulls out of her grip for a moment, leans down and kisses his grandmother on the cheek, like she made him do every time he left her home. And then his mother pulls him out of the room, her grip on his wrist so tight he thinks he can feel his bones shifting against each other.

“It smells like death in here,” she grumbles angrily.

“It doesn’t,” he says softly, but she glares at him. If she’d asked, he still wouldn’t have told her what it smelled like there to him: home.

That’s weird, he tells himself, and in the hall there’s an old man, standing still, like maybe he’s waiting for something. Jongin meets his eyes by accident, and smiles at him in embarrassment, gaze dropping to the floor, the same way he reacts whenever he meets someone’s eyes – but something makes him look up again, and the old man smiles at him. His eyes are gentle and dark and strangely familiar, but before Jongin can examine that thought further his mother yanks his arm, makes him stumble forward to catch up with her.

And when he looks back, the old man is gone.

The funeral is two weeks later, but his mother has her buried in the cemetery in their town, not the one in hers. They already own a plot there, she tell him angrily, when he finds the courage to ask her why. His grandmother can’t be buried with her husband, after all – he’s in the new cemetery near her house, with his son resting beside him. The Money only paid for the nursing home, she says (and not for the first time, not for the last time, Jongin wonders what she’s talking about). But in the end it stays the same – if his mother had to bury her, she’d go where it was cheapest to put her. Jongin thinks it’s wrong, but she’s never cared what he thinks.

Three weeks after he’s on the bus headed two towns over. He’d been skimming from his lunch money – he’s used to not eating much, anyway – because he’d meant to go see her, but then she’d ended up in the nursing home, and he didn’t have a chance. He didn’t stop doing it, though; it was a habit, by then, to save the little extra change, and he supposes he could have done something else with it, but in the end he still wanted to come back. He doesn’t know what’s happened to her house, but he still has a key, and he wants to see it one more time, while all the memories are still there.

He stares out the bus window at the passing scenery and knows his mother will be furious when he gets home. He’ll have to hide the key, and properly this time, if he wants to keep her from going there herself, from taking everything she thinks she can sell.

The past week has been embarrassing. His grandmother’s lawyer won’t open the will – it’s sealed until Jongin turns eighteen, he says. Fancy city bitch, his mother calls him, but Jongin sees her putting on more makeup the next time they visit the lawyer’s office, watches her try and straighten the wrinkles out of her too–tight pencil skirt before they go in the door, and he knows she’s mad because in her head, he’s looking down on her. He watches her beg, he watches her plead and scream, he watches her break down and threaten (she’ll get her own lawyer, she says, and make them give her what she’s owed – but she can barely make rent most weeks, she could never afford it) but none of it works, and in the end she just has to accept it. The last time they leave the lawyer’s office she yells at him the whole way home on the bus (she refuses to take the train, ever since—). This is all his fault, she says, and his grandmother could have at least done the right thing and given her the money to pay for him. She could have married his father’s rich friend, like she planned to, if he hadn’t knocked her up and ruined everything. She rails at Jongin – he’s useless and stupid, a waste of space and time and money, she should have given him up for the state to handle, that she should have aborted him, should never have married his hopeless coward of a father, that the two of them ruined her life. Jongin stares straight ahead through the whole tirade, barely blinking, barely breathing, deaf to her screams and blind to the curious, the worried, the disgusted looks from the other bus passengers. That night she cries herself to sleep (she does every night, and she thinks he doesn’t hear, but he does – he knows that no matter what she says, she loved his father, loves him still, and every night she cries for him – not to come back, but to take her with him).

He jolts out of his thoughts when the bus stops – on the corner in town, by the little convenience store – and hops out quickly, waving a polite thanks to the driver before bolting off down the street. His grandmother's house isn't far, only a block and a half and he fishes the key out from behind the little ceramic owl next to the mailbox and slips easily inside.

The house is just the same as he remembers, except it’s colder now, emptier, and he doesn’t know why he thought it might still feel like home. He stays as long as he can make himself. In his room – once upon time, his room – the bed is still freshly made, his tiny collection of books neatly stacked on the little desk in the corner, his father’s watch resting next to the picture he’d liked so much, of his grandmother and grandfather back when they were young, sitting on the steps of their new house while their son – seven, maybe eight, with soft sad eyes and dark hair that falls in his face – sits on the walkway in front of them, looking up through his bangs at the camera, the glimmer of a smile pulling at his lips. 

He sinks down to the carpet and it’s still worn bare here, right in front of the desk, where he put the kitchen chair when he needed to use it. He can hear the television on in the living room, the soft sound of running water in the kitchen sink, his grandmother’s slow delicate footsteps, the swish and rustle of her heavy housecoat. He buries his face in his hands and cries, wracking sobs that shake his thin shoulders, that leave him breathless and weak and trembling. There’s nothing here, nothing at all.

It takes him a long time, too long after that, to walk up the road to the cemetery. There’s a groundskeeper mowing along the outside of the fence, and when Jongin asks he directs him up a side street, away from the main road, and there he finds a gatehouse, and a small directory for the plots. It doesn’t take long to find the name he wants, the spot he wants, and he wanders quietly up the winding lane into the graveyard, looking out over the oddly flat landscape. His grandfather and father are at the base of a slight hill, and he looks up it first, at the crooked, old tree at the top of it.

Something flickers, a weight like a stone dropped in his stomach, a tightness in his chest he can’t place, and he feels so cold suddenly, freezing in the mild spring sun.

They’re nothing, two flat black slabs with names and dates, and Jongin’s vision is swimming again. But he shakes his head, fiercely, and kneels beside them, digs a little hole with his fingertips at the inner corner of his grandfather’s memorial, and drops the key into the dirt. He covers it up again and pulls the stone out of his pocket – a smooth blue–grey river rock from his grandmother’s tiny flowerbed, the size of his palm, flat and wide. He won’t forget it, he thinks, and it’s big enough not to be dislodged, he hopes. He presses it into the earth carefully, making sure it’s covering the right spot, before getting to his feet and dusting the dirt from his hands.

It’s still cold, cold, cold so he shoves his hands in his pockets and trudges back up the lane, eyes scanning the scenery blankly. He thinks he sees a house, down past the information building at the gate, an old white building squatting sadly in a copse of trees. Something about it draws him, pulls at the edges of his mind, but he has to catch the bus to the train station, if he wants to get back home before his mother gets off work, so she won't ask him where he's been. Back out on the street, he trudges up the long line of cemetery fence to the bus stop – the same one he used to take to school, although it's not the crosstown bus he's catching now. He leans against the gate with a sigh, closing his eyes and tipping his head back, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. It's not really cold anymore, but he hardly notices.

When he thinks he hears the bus coming, Jongin straightens, sighing, and steps forward towards the edge of the curb. Across the street in the old graveyard he can see people, seven or eight, standing at different tombstones, scattered across the broad expanse of the cemetery. He frowns a little, looking at them, and they turn – all of them, at once, they turn to stare right back.

His eyes widen in confused surprise and he takes a step back, frightened – but then the bus stops in front of him, and he gets on hurriedly, paying his fare and finding a seat near the back.

He looks out the window, hesitantly, as the bus starts to move again. The old burial grounds are empty, still and silent.

The ride to the train station isn't long, but he manages to convince himself that he just imagined it. After all, he reasons, he's never seen a single person in the old cemetery – no one related to the people buried there could even be alive now, probably. He's tired, and stressed, and nothing happened.

The ticker at the foot of the station stairs says he has eight minutes until the next train into the city, so he wanders down to the end of the platform, away from the other people waiting for the train. The outbound train is due in any minute now, and people are congregating on the other side of the platform, back near the stairs he came down, placing themselves in the best spots to try and get seats.

But he’s not alone at the end of the platform. On the other side, feet resting on the yellow border that marks the edge of the concrete, there’s a man. He’s older, tiny streaks of gray at the temples, his dark hair messy and falling in his eyes – wide, soft eyes, sad and warm and brown, and that’s when Jongin realizes they’re staring at each other across the platform, that the man is looking at him with those eyes, quiet and tired and full of something he can’t place.

“The next outbound train is now arriving,” says the tinny automated voice over the loudspeaker.

It happens so fast, the moment when Jongin feels that sudden flicker of familiarity, of understanding, of fear, and then the train is there, and the man is gone, and Jongin must have cried out when he fell because the security officer down near the stairs look over toward him in surprise. Everything is white noise and he feels like he’s underwater, his limbs are so hard to move, and by the time he reaches the other side of the platform the train is pulling slowly out of the station.

There is, as he knew there would be, nothing there.

He backs up, away from the edge. It wasn’t this station, he tells himself fiercely, eyes burning, it wasn’t this platform, it wasn’t this train. But it’s no use – the image is there, seared in, and when he closes his eyes he can still see the man on the edge of the platform, can watch his lips form ‘Jongin’ before he vanished backward under the rush of the train.

He’s breathing too fast. He’s shaking, distracted. His heel hits the edge of the platform and he spins around, abrupt, and only superior balance from years of dance practice keeps him from tumbling down onto the rails. But he stays there, feet planted firmly now on the thick strip of yellow tread. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears, can feel that heaviness again – like stones in his stomach, like a pressing weight across his shoulders, bearing him down, down, but he has to keep holding it up.

Doesn’t he?

A traitorous voice whispers in the back of his head, in a voice that sounds painfully like his mother’s. You’re never happy anyway, you’ll never be happy, you’re not worth anything. No one will ever want you or love you. At least someone loved your father – if it was worthless for him to stay, then how could someone like you deserve to keep living?

He closes his eyes, toes pressed hard to the edge, and his father is there, watching him, he can hear his grandmother muttering quietly to herself as she cleans her little house, he can feel the sudden, oppressive weight of eyes on him – eyes he doesn’t know, the dark angry eyes from the graveyard, sharp and fierce and malevolent, willing him to take that last step, to fall forward, their hands reaching out to drag him down—

“The inbound train is now arriving,” the loudspeaker intones flatly, and the fingers threaded together with Jongin’s are cool, the palm pressed to his is solid and real, and when he looks over a boy with too–wide eyes and a nervous smile is looking up at him.

“Hello again, Jongin,” he says softly, and his voice shimmers with bursts of light behind Jongin’s eyes, and the weight lifts, and he remembers.

Kyungsoo doesn’t seem at all surprised that Jongin had forgotten him, although he takes his apologies calmly, that same anxious smile on his lips. He doesn’t let go of Jongin’s hand, sits next to him calmly through the whole ride, gently pressing him until Jongin tells him everything about the past three years. His hand stays cool in Jongin’s tight grip but somehow it feels comforting, and when he cries as he tells Kyungsoo about everything that’s happened it’s reassuring to feel himself pulled gently into his embrace, the rough scratch of his heavy overcoat against Jongin’s cheek.

The train is pulling into his stop before he even knows it, and he feels a terrible, sinking feeling, his grip tightening on Kyungsoo’s hand.

But Kyungsoo only smiles, and gets up first, helping Jongin to his feet.

“Let me walk you home?” he asks gently, and Jongin thinks he sees something like fear behind his eyes, and doesn’t understand.

“If you want,” he says instead of asking, even though he’s a little late, his mother will be home, she might be angry – but he remembers her mentioning that the on–again, off–again fiancé might be coming to take her out tonight, so maybe she won’t be there, after all.

Kyungsoo’s hand tightens just a little around his own, that brighter, happier smile pulling at his lips, the one that sparks distant memories of a grassy stretch beneath a tree in high summer.

“What have you been up to?” Jongin finally asks, as they step out onto the sidewalk, and the city is quiet, for once.

Kyungsoo shrugs, the tiniest lift of shoulders, and Jongin wonders why he thinks that’s cute. “I’ve been around,” he murmurs, squeezing Jongin’s hand and smiling up at him, and that isn’t really an answer.

But then again, maybe it is.

“I won’t forget you this time,” Jongin says when they reach the stairs up to his mother’s apartment, and Kyungsoo’s smile is soft and sad.

“I know you won’t,” he whispers, and it sounds like a lie, and Jongin feels his heart clench.

The weight settles back into his shoulders when Kyungsoo lets go of his hand, and even the tender brush of lips against his cheek doesn’t weaken the sensation of being forced downward, but Jongin’s cheeks burn soft pink, and he loves the way Kyungsoo smiles when he sees that blush.

But then he’s walking away, and Jongin’s mother is shouting out the fourth floor window to ask where he’s been all day, and when Jongin turns back to say goodbye one last time, Kyungsoo is already gone.

The memories fade again in clips and flashes, falling to dust between his fingers, and when he reaches the top of the stairs, Jongin is all alone again.


	3. when we reach each other.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They sit on Taemin’s porch and Sehun sings along with the radio while they eat junk food and strip the leaves off the vines climbing the stairs, until finally they’re too bored to sit anymore, and Taemin decides, smirking, that they should do a dare. 
> 
> Jongin wrinkles his nose. "Aren't we too old for that?" he asks mildly, and Sehun laughs soft and bright.
> 
> "Last chance to be kids," Taemin insists mischievously, catching them both by the wrist and hauling them up off the porch.

They’re graduating in the morning, ceremony at 9am sharp, but they shouldn’t be expected to sleep before something so important. Taemin invited them to his house – only too proud of his year–late degree, taking advantage of his parent’s kindness to bring Jongin and Sehun home when they’ll all have to be up bright and early and presentable, too. Jongin’s still quiet, still hesitant around them – they’ve only just deemed him their friend this year, almost out of nowhere, although he does recall that neither of them has ever been as mean as the other boys – now, of course, Sehun is bratty to them both, and Taemin is teasing almost to the point of cruelty, but they call him their friend, and invite him whenever they hang out, and he supposes that’s better than nothing at all.

Taemin spent his schooling being driven to and fro – his home is right on the outskirts of the same little town as Jongin’s home – his grandmother’s home, empty of people, sheets draped over the furniture, waiting to be sold or lived in again. They sit on Taemin’s porch and Sehun sings along with the radio while they eat junk food and strip the leaves off the vines climbing the stairs, until finally they’re too bored to sit anymore, and Taemin decides, smirking, that they should do a dare. 

Jongin wrinkles his nose. "Aren't we too old for that?" he asks mildly, and Sehun laughs soft and bright.

"Last chance to be kids," Taemin insists mischievously, catching them both by the wrist and hauling them up off the porch.

He doesn't tell his parents where they're going, just pulls them down the drive and along the road, Sehun grumbling and trying to free himself from Taemin's tight grip, Jongin following in complacent quiet. They're loud when they walk together, these two, always laughing and joking about something, calling each other names and getting into mock fights. Jongin likes that about them, likes that they disturb his quiet, likes that sometimes they force him to be loud with them.

Halfway there, Taemin tells them, and he's finally describing what they're going to do. There's a house he says is haunted, on the outskirts of this cemetery nearby, and he would bet neither of them could last an hour inside it. Sehun scoffs loudly, scowling at being put on the spot, and when they reach the place he demands to go first.

The house is white and dirty, the back facing the road, the only break in the high wrought iron fence that encircles the cemetery, and suddenly Jongin knows where he is. Looking past the house he can see the soft sloping hills of the graveyard, and for a moment he imagines slipping past the fence and into the grounds, going to find the flat slab with his grandmother's name – but then Sehun's teasing them both for being too scared to go in first, sneaking quietly up to the back door of the house to push it open, the hinges squealing angrily, and he disappears inside. Jongin feels a sudden sharp sense that they shouldn't be here, doing this, that it's wrong or cruel somehow. The sensation bubbles under his skin, the knowledge that someone might somehow be hurt by their trespassing, but he can't explain it, can't pinpoint the reason – and Taemin would think it was stupid, anyway. The older boy regales him with a story of his rule breaking at his old school, one he says lightly that he hasn't even shared with Sehun, and Jongin is just starting to relax, Taemin's dramatic flair building what was clearly just a minor infraction into an escape attempt that seems about to end in a school–wide riot when the back door to the house flies open again, and Sehun comes out pale and shaking.

He insists it was nothing, that he wasn't scared but bored, then sneers at Jongin to stay inside longer, if he's so brave.

Approaching the house, Jongin feels almost worried, almost scared, but he doesn't look back, and when the door swings heavily shut behind him the feeling fades. He's never been here before, he knows, but there is the strangest sense about the house, the oddest lingering sensation that he's home. The back door leaves him in the kitchen, and for a moment he sees it dusty and dark, the counters piled with rusted pots and pans, broken dishes on the dirty floor and cobwebs connecting the low hanging chandelier to the corners of the room like streamers. But then he blinks, and the room is clean and carefully cared for, a little lantern burning low beside the sink. Jongin's distracted for a moment by how old everything is – the pump to bring water to the sink, the squat icebox in the corner, the wide wood–burning stove that sits like an open mouth at the far wall, its chimney disappearing into the wall. 

The kitchen door comes out beside a high staircase, and Jongin gets a shimmering moment of decay, stairs crumbling to dust halfway up, gas lanterns shattered, the wide front door crooked on its hinges – but it's gone too quickly for him to take it all in. The gas is lit at the base of the wide, carpeted staircase, the light barely illuminating the high–ceilinged room, but Jongin peers around in fascination, taking in the pale green scrollwork on the wallpaper, the burned down candle on the little table beside the door, breathing in the odd sickly sweetness of the air. The entryway is bracketed by arched doorways, and peeking through one Jongin gets a weak glimpse of a fireplace, bookshelves, stacks of papers—

The noise that makes him turn is a low rush, like the first howl of a strong wind, and Jongin gasps in sharp surprise as the air turns frigid. There's someone at the top of the stairs, someone angry, and the feeling of you don't belong here rocks through him violently, but somehow Jongin isn't afraid. He frowns, a little crease between his brows, stepping closer to the stairs.

Someone – the someone on the staircase – makes a sound of surprised happiness when he steps into the halo of the light, and the temperature shifts just as abruptly back to normal.

"Jongin," a voice breathes out, and someone's rushing down the stairs, catching him in a hug so fierce he stumbles back. "It's been so long, I've missed you," he whispers in Jongin's ear, and his voice is soft and melodic, his arms are reassuringly strong around Jongin's middle, soft dark hair brushing his cheek.

Pieces shudder, reform and snap into place, and Jongin hugs Kyungsoo back so tightly it's a wonder he can breathe. "I missed you too," he finally manages, throat tight and eyes stinging, and Kyungsoo hums soothingly, squeezes him closer before pulling back to hold him at arm's length. Whatever he sees must please him, Jongin thinks, from the smile on his face.

"Come on, then," the older boy says with quiet amusement, and for all that his expressions are so subdued, Jongin can see how happy he is, how overwhelmed. "I'll put the kettle on and we'll talk."

Kyungsoo's tea kettle is a heavy, cast–iron affair, big enough for much more than the water for a few cups of tea, and his imposing stove has to be lit with a match. Jongin watches him go through the motions like they're simple routine, fascinated by the movement of his fingers, the play of muscles under his white and blue dress shirt, the slight stretch of skin where he rolled his sleeves to the elbow. His dress slacks are wrinkled at the bends of the knees, suspenders hanging forgotten from his waistband, as if he'd been disrupted in the middle of undressing, and Jongin feels his cheeks flush hot at the very thought. He feels oddly underdressed, in only baggy jeans and a white tank, and he hugs himself distractedly, fingers curling into the skin of his upper arms.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Kyungsoo says softly, and Jongin blinks for a moment in confusion before he remembers the sudden glacial chill, the figure looming at the top of the stairs, the overwhelming feeling of being unwelcome. He shifts from foot to foot, hands shoved into his pockets, and tries to stare at the marks on the floor where a table used to sit in the center of the kitchen, instead of at Kyungsoo’s worried smile.

“You didn’t,” he mutters, nose wrinkling, “it was just… unexpected.”

Kyungsoo hums in agreement, stepping hesitantly closer. Jongin’s attention catches on the dirt beneath his fingernails, the stitching on the thin blue stripes of his shirt, the dip of his collarbone where it peeks out above his unbuttoned collar, and then he’s blushing again, looking away, but Kyungsoo only smiles reassuring and sidles around him to rummage through his cupboards.

“Was that your friend, before?” he asks gently, pulling out two teacups – one of them chipped at the rim, both patterned with delicate white lilies and tiny black roses. Jongin examines the cups with distracted fascination, grateful for something to focus on that isn’t Kyungsoo.

“Yeah, he’s… my friend,” he answers reluctantly, a frown edging his lips momentarily. “Did you mean to frighten him?” He tries to decide, as he asks, if he’s actually concerned about Sehun, but then his attention pulls to the look of apprehension on Kyungsoo’s face, and he feels bad for mentioning it. “Not that I’m worried,” he adds hastily, “just curious.”

Kyungsoo’s little smile stays worried, however, until the kettle boils and he turns away. “Most people,” he whispers once his back is turned, “cannot see me, or hear me. Sometimes they can feel me – sense that I’m near… but for the most, human senses are quite dull.” He pauses apologetically, as if he’s said something he shouldn’t. “I do think I startled him – he could hear me, if he couldn’t see me.”

Jongin thinks again of the malevolent not–Kyungsoo voice that had echoed in his head. “Don’t worry about it. Sehun’s kind of a brat; he could use a little scare.”

Kyungsoo chuckles, and Jongin feels like he’s swallowed warm chocolate, the feeling spreading through his chest and making him look away. He takes the tea offered to him silently and follows Kyungsoo back out of the kitchen, into the room to the right of the entryway, hanging back as Kyungsoo steps forward quickly to light the gas. Jongin must make a little shocked noise, confused when the room flickers again before his eyes, because Kyungsoo turns to him with a little frown creasing his brow. The carpet is eaten away by mold, the upholstery on the high–backed chair by the fireplace and the low couch beneath the picture window rotting away inside splintered wooden frames, shelves of books along the far wall damp and crumbling, the mantelpiece shattered, bricks and dust strewn across the floor – and then it’s not, just as suddenly, the damp neglect vanishing under warmth and quiet comfort. Kyungsoo’s hand is gentle just below his elbow, drawing Jongin in to sit.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently, “it’s meant to keep people away. It shouldn’t happen to you too much longer.”

Jongin nods vaguely, sipping his tea. There’s a cheery little fire going behind that grate that he doesn’t remember being there when they entered the room. If Kyungsoo notices his confusion, he doesn’t comment on it.

It’s such an easy thing, to fall back into their friendship. Kyungsoo’s questions are gentle but eager, his expression alight with happiness as he devours every new detail of Jongin’s life, hanging brightly onto every word. He sits so close their knees bump, and watching Jongin over the chipped rim of his cup as his questions move forward – Jongin is graduating tomorrow, but what happens after that? This time it’s Kyungsoo who blushes, paper white cheeks stained pink with pleasure when Jongin says he’s going to school to dance, and Jongin has to concentrate on the odd line of cold seeping through the thick material of his jeans where their thighs press together instead of how lovely he looks when he’s flushed.

He sets his cup on the side table, mindful of the delicate china, and when they settle back against the couch together – conversation running calmer now, Kyungsoo satisfied that he’s caught up with Jongin’s life – Kyungsoo fits comfortably under Jongin’s arm, nestling contentedly against his side.

There are so many questions now, that he thinks he wants to ask – that he ought to ask. Kyungsoo knows everything about him, but Jongin hardly knows a thing about Kyungsoo. He looks around the room again, the words he’s saying dying on his lips, trying to think of some good way to draw out a straight answer about anything, really. Kyungsoo sighs softly, like he’s anticipating this, and Jongin looks down at the his head where it rests against his shoulder, dark hair swept neatly back from his forehead, and an emotion he can’t place grips him tight, makes him catch his breath.

“Why don’t I remember you when, when I’m not with you?” he asks finally, the words tumbling out in a rush – the single most important question, after all.

Kyungsoo tilts his head back against Jongin’s shoulder, looking up at him with wide, tender eyes. “Because I thought… it’s easier that way. For you.”

“For me? Easier to— to always feel like I’m missing something, to—”

“I didn’t want you to miss me,” Kyungsoo interrupts, his voice breaking, and Jongin regrets his little outburst. “I didn’t want to know you were missing me, when I couldn’t be near you. No one’s supposed to remember me but I… it would have been so much harder, if you remembered, to stay away…”

Jongin thinks he should ask why Kyungsoo had to stay away, but he can’t. The words catch and twist in his throat, trapped by the look of pain on Kyungsoo’s face, and he only wants to make it go away.

He doesn’t know how they ended up like this – except he does, he remembers vividly how he tilted Kyungsoo’s chin up just a little further with the gentle press of fingers and caught his full lips in a kiss, how just that brief contact set sparks down his spine and left him reeling, gasping as Kyungsoo’s hands came up to tangle in his hair and drag him down and then one kiss was two and three and he was pressing Kyungsoo down into the soft cushions of the couch, intoxicated by his breathy little moans and eager sighs. He’s panting now, into the hollow above Kyungsoo’s collarbone, breath coming stilted and shaky as Kyungsoo’s fingers thread tenderly through his hair. He’s trying to pull himself together, itching to press messy kisses along the curve of his clavicle and leave possessive red marks on his throat, he feels like he’s burning up because it’s Kyungsoo he wants, it’s always been Kyungsoo. Thin fingers smooth his hair gently back from his forehead, thighs tight against his hips, Kyungsoo’s breathing slowly evening out but he’s so hot, Jongin can finally feel the warmth of his body through their clothes, Kyungsoo’s fingers are warm when they brush against his temple and he feels a sob catch in his throat that he doesn’t understand.

“We’re going too fast, hm?” Kyungsoo whispers, quiet and soothing, and that snaps Jongin out of his reverie, teeth sinking sharp into the delicate skin beneath his lips and Kyungsoo arches up beneath him with a shattered gasp, head falling back against the cushions and grip suddenly tight in Jongin’s hair. It’s easy to get his shirt unbuttoned because Jongin needs skin, now, and Kyungsoo’s chest is flushed beneath his roving hands. He’s warmth and gasping breaths and Jongin longs to keep that heat, wants desperately to chase the cold from every inch of him.

Kyungsoo uses the hold on his hair to drag Jongin up to meet his lips in another kiss, swallowing down his moan at the sting of his scalp, whimpering against his lips as Jongin finally gets his pants open and slips a warm hand inside to palm his erection, and Jongin purrs when Kyungsoo arches into his touch. It should be awkward but Jongin can’t think of anything but the heat of Kyungsoo under his hands, the breathy broken noises falling from his lips, the way Kyungsoo whines his name like he might break at any moment. Kyungsoo’s breath hitches, loud against Jongin’s lips, his hips stuttering, pushing into the circle of Jongin’s hand and he’s never made someone else feel good like this, he doesn’t expect the rush of breathless need as he pulls back enough to watch Kyungsoo’s face, swollen lips parted and dark eyes wide as he comes apart.

Unsteady fingers find the zipper of Jongin’s jeans but it only takes the first sweep of Kyungsoo’s thumb down the line of his cock for his own orgasm to leave him breathless, shaking as he buries his face against the curve of Kyungsoo’s neck. 

They stay like that for a while, just breathing together, Jongin reveling in the warmth that's spread through Kyungsoo's body as tender fingers thread slowly through his hair. Finally, though, Kyungsoo makes him get up, blushing as he fusses with their clothes, and drags him into a little washroom off the kitchen to clean up – cracked porcelain and ragged, ripped curtains give way to the same immaculate tidiness as the rest of the house. They're back in the kitchen and Jongin knows it's late, getting later, but he catches Kyungsoo in a kiss so deep he thinks he feels it down to his toes.

"Let me remember," he breathes into the space between their lips, swallowing Kyungsoo's gasp with another kiss. "Please, let me have this, let me remember you..."

He can hear Taemin outside, irritated and frightened, calling his name. He realizes he'd completely forgotten his friends were waiting.

Kyungsoo is still in his arms, pressed warm and tight against his chest, panting softly from the last kiss.

"Please," Jongin whispers plaintively, watching Kyungsoo's dark eyes widen and then fall shut.

"Alright," Kyungsoo whimpers, and Jongin tries not to think there are tears in the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall. "If you want it, then it's yours."

Jongin whispers ‘thank you’s into their kisses until Kyungsoo sobs against him, nails digging hard into his waist, until Taemin's calls outside reach a frantic note, until he has no choice any longer.

"I have to go," he says quietly, and Kyungsoo kisses him again instead of goodbye, pushing him towards the door. The last brush of his hand against the small of Jongin's back is still warm.

Taemin and Sehun grab him when he comes back outside, and for a moment Jongin worries that one of them might punch him. But then Taemin shoves him into Sehun, almost overbalancing them both.

"You asshole, we've been out here calling for like twenty minutes!"

Jongin blinks at him dumbly. There's simply no way it was only twenty minutes. He glances back at the house and it is two pictures overlapped: one dirty, dingy house listing to the left in the black of night, paint peeling, an eyesore even under the forgiving moonlight; and the other, solid and newly whitewashed, the soft glow of a candle still showing through a second floor window, the soft orange burn of sunrise in the distance.

“I’ll see you soon,” Jongin mumbles, still lost, and Sehun shakes his shoulder.

They drag him back to Taemin’s house like that, distracted and stumbling over his own feet, and Taemin tries to point out that the ghost stories are just something he made up to freak them out, there’s really nothing special about the house. Jongin nods dutifully along and when they’re all curled up on Taemin’s living room floor he laughs at them for being worried, smirks like he scared them on purpose, plays the part he’s meant to play – it doesn’t matter, anyway, because he can still feel the burn of Kyungsoo’s touch, can still taste him on his lips, can still remember.

Graduation in the morning is hard to wake for, hard to sit through, hot and still and boring. Jongin watching Sehun’s head bob as he tries not to fall asleep during the speeches, and wonders if his mother is in the audience. Taemin makes faces at him down the line, throwing bits of paper at Sehun every time he nods off. They finally, finally stand – making their way towards the stage slowly, and as Jongin scans the crowd he remembers his mother sighing at him the morning before, saying that she might not be able to stay for the whole ceremony, she had an interview for a new secretarial job today. She’s getting better, he thinks, so much better, now that he’s older and can take care of himself properly, now that the on again, off again fiancée has proposed with a real ring, now that she’s finally agreed to stay in therapy. She hugged him, when he told her he’d gotten into the college he wanted to attend – awkward and tight and too short, but a hug nonetheless – and she hadn’t admonished him for pursuing dance, had only said he should do what he loves.

He spots Sehun’s parents towards the middle, scans the seats near theirs because he picked up his ticket at the same time – and there she is, smiling slightly, holding up a hand to wave at him. She’s left her hair down, waves of dark brown framing her smiling face, the sun glinting off the copper streaks where she bleached it lighter. She’s wearing the dress he likes, the one she was wearing the first time she told him she was proud of him, a year and a half ago – it’s pink and white, with lace around the low neckline, and he remembers watching her smooth it down in front of the mirror before leaving for a date, remembers how she finally looked comfortable in front of him. 

He smiles back at her, bright and sweet and happy, and then he has to turn away, careful not to trip as he goes up the steps.

Afterward they find their parents, and although Sehun’s mother hugs him and Taemin’s father squeezes his shoulder, all of them congratulatory, everyone proud, Jongin can’t find his own mother in the crowd. She must have gone, he knows, and he feels a little surge of happiness that she at least saw him, she at least took the time.

His mother has never met his friends, or their parents, but Sehun’s father says there was no woman in pink sitting near them.

That’s fine, because even though she’s beautiful to him, he doesn’t expect anyone to notice her. He lets his friends cart him off to an early dinner, lets Taemin ruffle his hair and kick him under the table, lets Sehun foot the bill and grumble testily that they should pay for him, since he’s the youngest. Taemin piles them into his car – a graduation present, and the inside still smells like clean new leather, and Sehun whines louder that his parents only gave him money for graduation, before Taemin reaches over and slaps him upside the head for talking that way in front of Jongin – and drives them both home, dropping Sehun off a block from his house and speeding away with a laugh before he pulls up in front of Jongin’s apartment building.

The bricks are starting to crumble on one side, and the stairs up to the door are crooked. Jongin thinks about Taemin’s house with too many rooms and too much furniture, Sehun’s perfectly decorated condo with the doorman to buzz you in, and he feels embarrassed, not for the first time.

Taemin tells him not to be a stranger, and waits until he’s got the door open before driving off.

The stairs creak louder than they have before, and Jongin feels his stomach sinking, a stinging pressure behind his eyes, something he doesn’t understand. Trepidation. He stops in front of his door, frozen, chilled to the bone, and fumbles with his keys. The mail is still outside, sitting on the mat – his mother must not be home yet – and after dropping it all twice he gets himself inside.

He puts his things away, graduation robes hung up neatly, his bag from their sleepover dropped at the foot of his bed, and the feeling isn’t fading. His palms itch, his skin prickles, something’s wrong. The apartment seems fine – the door was locked, the living room and kitchen are empty. He splashes water on his face in the bathroom and it doesn’t help.

In the narrow hallway there’s a sense of something rushing past him, as if he could turn quick enough and see something – someone – there. It makes his heart race, his breath quicken, and without thinking he’s running down the hall to his mother’s room, throwing open the door, and it all makes sense – or doesn’t.

She’s wearing the dress he likes best, her pretty hair in waves framing her face, and he takes in the spilled bottles of pills on the floor, the shattered glass, and even as the room swims around him he thinks she looks like maybe she’s finally at peace.


End file.
